


come and save me from it

by incogneat_oh



Series: That One Hug Meme [25]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Profanity, Prompt Fill, batfamily, hug meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Tim stands uncomfortably in the dark of Jason’s apartment. Unsure what he can– what he should do. And Jason shoulders past him to flick on the light, but it’s clearly for Tim’s sake. He doesn’t pause on his way out of the small, well-used bedroom.For the hug meme, 'clinging'.





	come and save me from it

**Author's Note:**

> This is the actual last fic in the hug meme series! A minor miracle that I even remembered it. This is what happens when I never update my masterlist lmao. 
> 
> Some dark themes in this one, with Jason having a reasonably minor emotional breakdown. Still has a hug though, which counts.

—

Jason is stiff behind him on the bike, hands gripped tight to his bandoliers. Tim can feel the warmth of him, even through his thick cape that’s rucked up and half-bundled on the seat between them. 

They smell like blood and smoke and Gotham’s night air. They are bruised and battered. Jason’s throat, Tim knows, must be raw and painful.

And they haven’t really spoken since they got out of the warehouse. They’d dodged the wail of sirens, the flashing lights of cop-cars. Sidled around the Batmobile, but they’re under no illusions. He knew they were there.

He let them leave.

Tim slows it on gunning the bike, glances over his shoulder. “Your place okay, or d’you wanna go to mine?”

Jason’s streaked with sweat and grime; his domino’s loose at one side, dried blood dark and flaking from his nose down to his lip. His helmet, left behind, was a lost cause. And he decides; “Mine.”

So Tim– Red Robin– cuts a right, into Gotham’s more seedy underbelly. Through the dark, increasingly poor streets; cracked building facades, far too many “for sale” signs. Graffiti and broken windows. 

Jason’s territory.

And they don’t speak when Tim parks the bike in a garage a block away from Jason’s apartment. They don’t speak when they go the long way, through an underground tunnel and up through into the building beside Jason’s. Jumping between fire escapes to finally reach Jason’s place.

For Robins, paranoia is mandatory.

And Jason doesn’t seem to mind that Red Robin’s trailing him, even pauses to let him go first. Climbing gracelessly through Jason’s wooden splintered window frame, awkwardly dragging the weight of his cape behind him.

Tim stands uncomfortably in the dark of Jason’s apartment. Unsure what he can– what he should do. And Jason shoulders past him to flick on the light, but it’s clearly for Tim’s sake. He doesn’t pause on his way out of the small, well-used bedroom.

So Tim follows. Unsure, out of place, he stands in the doorway of Jason’s tiny bathroom while the man peels off the domino, scrubbing over his face and hair with cold water. He emerges from under the faucet gasping, hair dripping and only wet in parts, and says, voice rough, “I don’t… have anything to fit you. But there’s some of Dickie’s clothes in the drawer. Left ‘em here after his last misguided attempt at bonding.” 

“Didn’t go well, then?” Tim calls, already on his way back through to Jason’s bedroom. At least Jason finally answered the question Tim wasn’t ready to ask; he doesn’t want to be left alone after all.

“… Does it ever?”

And Tim, dragging off the cowl, figures that’s a rhetorical question. But it’s one that makes him laugh nonetheless. And he takes off his cape and bandoliers, dropping them to Jason’s surprisingly clean floor. Then he sheds the gloves and boots, too, rummaging as neatly as he can through Jason’s clothes.

“That blue one’s his,” Jason says, startling him. Pointing at a t-shirt from the doorway. “And those godawful track-pants, too.”

Grimacing, Tim holds up the shirt. It reads; **Shut up and hug me**. 

Jason makes a point of rolling his eyes, says, “Just be thankful the pants don’t have a slogan across the ass.” He’s shed his jacket and shoes, and his hair is dripping, dark spots of damp on his shirt. He looks… uneasy, somehow, not quite right. His mouth is tilted down at the side, posture stiff, and he’s moving stiffly, in short jerks. He says, “I’ve only got the one bathroom. Did you want to shower now, or… ?”

“You go first,” Tim says, quickly. Sees how Jason’s shoulders relax fractionally. “I can order us some pizza while I’m waiting?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “Yeah, okay.” And then, sounding a little more like himself, “None of that weird shit on it though. No seafood. Nothing _fancy_ and _imported_ , yeah? Like… regular pizza. Pepperoni and stuff.”

“I can do that,” Tim says, grinning crookedly. 

And Jason nods, still like a man dreaming; Tim doesn’t like the set of his mouth. But he shuts the bathroom door behind him and the water starts running, so Tim takes it as a good sign.

He goes into Jason’s kitchen, where there are drying dishes on the sink, a surprisingly well-stocked fridge, but he can’t find a takeout menu anywhere.

He winds up, of course, giving Babs a buzz. She tells him Jason’s usual pizza-place, and his usual order, with a simple; “He okay?” When Tim affirms that yes, he is, she’s even kind enough to connect him to the pizza place. He orders too much, sure to change Jason’s usual order so he doesn’t think he’s being spied on, then sheds the rest of his Red Robin uniform. 

He changes into his borrowed clothes, (that smell like clean laundry rather than Dick himself), and washes his hands and face in Jason’s kitchen sink. 

Then he sits down on Jason’s couch, wondering if it’s too invasive to turn on the TV. But then, he is a Bat. There are many worse things he could do.

He does turn on the TV.

It’s a little while later when Jason– smelling like clean soap and wet cigarette smoke– comes into the sitting room, a towel draped over his shoulder. He’s in what are presumably his pyjamas, a well-worn t-shirt and a pair of Wonder Woman boxer shorts.

For all that he looks better, he also looks worse. There is something in his expression that Tim hasn’t seen in a long time. Something that he doesn’t like.

“You want to wash up?” Jason jerks his thumb over his shoulder, toward the open bathroom door. “I got clean towels and everything.”

“In a bit,” Tim says. “Pizza won’t be long.”

And Jason looks confused for a second. Then, “Oh. Thanks.”

He flops to sit on the couch beside Tim. The laws of physics and second-hand sofas being what they are, the sudden and unexpected weight of Jason has Tim bouncing a little closer, tipping sideways until he and Jason are almost touching.

Jason doesn’t seem to notice, eyes focussed on the TV. But Tim knows he isn’t watching it; not really. And for minutes, they sit. Close enough to feel the warmth along his side, Tim is so far from Jason. Waiting for him to do _something,_ to snap or swear or flip out. To kick him out, to shut down. To announce that “the Batman must die!” and load up on weapons. Tim doesn’t know.

All he knows is, they’re pretending to watch TV in Jason’s cramped apartment. Tim is watching Jason.

“You need the first aid kit?” Tim offers eventually, light, like it doesn’t matter. Eyes barely flicking to Jason.

“Nah,” he says. “Just bruises.” And then, eyes widening, “Are you–?”

Tim smiles then, wry, gestures to himself. “You don’t see it, I don’t have it,” he says. Clarifies, “Just bruises for me, too.”

Jason, eyes finally seeing him, says, “You look like an idiot in that shirt.”

He laughs, shrugging. “Yeah, well. I was _going_ to say somethin’ to insult those boxer shorts, but you’d know my heart wasn’t in it. They’re awesome and I’m jealous.”

Jason gives an uncomfortable little grin, pleased flush going over his cheeks, and says, “Well, yeah.” Laughs, even, a short bark of sound. And all at once, the tension goes out of him, head dropping, and he says, “Shit. _Shit_.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees.

“Fucking–“ Jason says, still quiet, starting to shake. “Fucking _shit_ , Tim.”

Adrenaline come-down is a bitch most days. But this… this, Tim can’t imagine.

Cautious, Tim extends a hand out to Jason, who’s still swearing, still shaking. He can’t even see the man’s face.

And he _hates_ himself, for the way he flinches when Jason reaches for him. Blindly, the elder fumbles for him, grasping at air and his arm, his shoulder. Squeezing. His fingers tangle in Dick’s stupid oversized shirt, gripping the fabric tightly. Stretching it, probably.

“Shit,” he’s still saying. “I really– I _really thought_ –“

“I know,” Tim says, quietly. Carefully touching his hands to Jason’s side. “I know. It’s okay, Jace. We’re okay.”

And Jason’s shaking under his hands; he’s shifting his grip on Tim, pulling him closer, and the shitty couch creaks dangerously beneath their combined weight. Jason doesn’t notice, pulling him closer, closer again, until they’re pressed tight together. Jason’s grip is firm and a little desperate.

“It’s okay,” Tim says again, face against Jason’s faintly damp throat. “It’s okay, it really is.” And, “I’m not… I’m not going anywhere, okay? It’s okay.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jason says again. “Just… Jesus. I.”

“You did the right thing,” Tim says, quiet. Voice practically a whisper.

And he feels Jason freeze above him, carefully stops his cringe from showing. Whatever happens from here…

Jason pulls back just far enough to look down at him. Says, voice heavy with incredulity and something else, “I _let him live_ , Tim.”

“You did the right thing for _you_ , Jason,” Tim explains, self-consciously. “This isn’t… don’t make it about _him_.” 

Jason doesn’t say anything to that, for a long minute. Tim braves a look at his face.

And like that, he knows there won’t be violence tonight. Not between the two of them. Not when Jason’s eyes are large and wet and exactly the same as they’d looked, when he was a 14-year-old kid who Tim had followed everywhere. Who Tim was sure could do _anything_.

“Yeah,” Jason says. Absent. “ _Yeah_ ,” and Tim moves closer again, letting Jason reaffirm his grip. Because this is something Jason needs. Because screw clowns, and Gotham, and even Batman on nights like this.

Because Jason was _his_ Robin, and this is something Tim can do. Sit here long enough for Jason to piece himself back together. To make distinct the memories of _then_ and _now_. That warehouse and this one. 

This time, they’d walked away.

And Tim… thinks about what Dick Grayson would do. Because Tim Drake has never been as good at this. 

So he readjusts Jason’s grip on him, to make it a little more comfortable, but is sure to press closer so Jason knows he’s sticking around. He wraps one arm around Jason to return the hug, tucking his head firmly under Jason’s chin. With his other hand, he squeezes Jason’s wrist. Gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over the bone.

“We’re okay,” he says, because it bears repeating.

And he ignores, from the corner of his eye, the Bat-shaped shadow, outside of Jason’s window. And Jason ignores it too.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/85728763569/uh-jaytim-7-and-14-or-both-together-v)  
> Now that this series is actually finished, thanks again for the support!


End file.
